But wilt thou not weep, wilt thou not weep forth thy purple melancholy, then wilt thou have to sing , O my soul!⁠—Behold, I smile myself, who foretell thee this:

—Thou wilt have to sing with passionate song, until all seas turn calm to hearken unto thy longing⁠—

—Until over calm longing seas the bark glideth, the golden marvel, around the gold of which all good, bad, and marvellous things frisk:⁠—

—Also many large and small animals, and everything that hath light marvellous feet, so that it can run on violet-blue paths⁠—

—Towards the golden marvel, the spontaneous bark, and its master: he, however, is the vintager who waiteth with the diamond vintage-knife⁠—

—Thy great deliverer, O my soul, the nameless one⁠⸺for whom future songs only will find names! And verily, already hath thy breath the fragrance of future songs⁠—